Wine Drops
by Gun toten Girly
Summary: His quest for revenge would never end. That suited him; Killing those who massacred his family pleased him. Becoming an Assassin at 15 gave him an excuse to kill, but he regretted not listening to history lessons. Rangers were deadly in person... AU.
1. Long Live the King!

**Wine Drops**

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**Important (long) Note:** Okay, Ranger's Apprentice is one of my many obsessions at the moment, currently coinciding with Assassin's Creed. Those unfamiliar with Assassin's Creed need to at least see a video or trailer of it. _So_ many details, descriptions, and settings are based off of it. Simply wandering around a city could ellicit so much inspiration that it's incredible. Every time I sit down and play the game I'm itching to write.

If you're religious, I'm not quite sure what reaction you'll get from Assassin's Creed. I'll try to explain the theories as best as I can, but if you have any questions don't hesitate to ask. I'll mix everything together and switch things up so it's not as controversial. Just wanted to warn you guys, though. I'm trying to aim for a 15+ chaptered story. Hopefully it'll work, LOL.

So to make things easier, I'll lay things out for you: All Ranger's Apprentice characters, settings, and concepts are going to be used. Only Assassin's Creed concepts are involved, characters and settings are to make _no_ appearances. A lot of things have changed and some characters tweaked, but... it's just a crossover. Just watch and see how it'll lay out. I know the Italian in this is seriously marred; in fact, that's the purpose. If you look at Flanagan's books, you'll notice he changes things here and there to make the language 'his own'. Translations will be at the bottom. Although the culture and political upstandings are in the 1450-1500 AD range, did anybody know that Ranger's Apprentice actually takes place in 643 AD? I was pretty shocked when I found out. It's on the Australian website if anybody's interested, on the map. Another thing I have to address, is that yes, the story starts off a bit slow. I've been told by a very reliable and trustworthy source the many parallels the Ranger's Apprentice world has. To make things easier, I'll list only a few of them that relate to this story.

Toscano - Italy (Most likely named after Tuscany)

Araluen - England (Not quite sure where the name came from)

Gallica - France (Again, not quite sure)

Characters have been tweaked a little to display certain traits, but gradually they'll begin to develop and you'll see them transform. Updates are most likely not going to be continuous. I'm horrible with schedules. I'll keep the ANs to a minimum, this is the only exception.

And a huge, enormous, gigantic, -insert an adjective to describe something bigger than life itself- thank you to Elfpen, the very reliable and trustworthy source. Seriously, guys. I don't know what I'd do without her. She's an amazing writer with amazing ideas and an amazing sense of humor. She's what made this story the way it is and if there're any reviews to be made, credit goes to her as well. So thank you, Elf. I really, really, _**REALLY**_ appreciate what you do :D

Another long, very, very, _very_ gratitious thank you goes to my little sister Tigeress8520. Without her, this story would very easily go down the toilet and simmer there like something _bad_. It's thanks to her you've been able to get most of the ideas and outrages writer's blocks that are bound to come up. She is the pavement to my plotholes. When there's a long break between updates, and I've told you I'm out of ideas, just give her a short message and ask her to _please help_ when I'm too proud to do it. I love you, sis, I really do, but sometimes my big head gets in the way, LOL.

Enjoy!

-_GtG_

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**Prologue  
"Long Live The King!"**

* * *

"_It is not flesh and blood  
__but the Heart  
__which makes us  
__Fathers and Sons._"  
-Johann Schiller

* * *

War — it is a word often associated with a story, such as a tale of a great battle single-handedly ended by a handsome young man on a white horse. He would courageously fight his enemy, slay the commander, and claim victory in the name of his country. He would then be honored by the king himself and marry the beautiful princess.

Happily ever after, right?

It was not so. Fear is not often something associated with war, but as a man hefts a heavy sword and stands in battle formation, waiting for his leader's command and hoping his leader knows what he is doing, he stares at the dark blob of the enemy in the distance and realizes that his dreams were not accurate. This is actual war: a bloodthirsty and horrid thing where the average man is not atop a massive steed wearing protective armor. The grass underfoot is very real and wet, as are the screams of death and the crunch of swords slamming into bodies. He is on the front lines, next to people who copy his example, where a man says his final prayers and hopes that his family can live well without him.

But what one must know is that not all wars have to be fought on a battlefield. In fact, the tale of this story is a tale where magnificent horses, battles, and festivals are absent; instead, it is a tale of secrecy, corruption, and treachery, where in the end the brave warrior does not receive his recognition or the princess. It is a tale that provokes hatred, unfairness, and a carnal sense of revenge. A tale that has yet to bring forth a satisfying ending to be told as bedtime stories to children.

Because _happily ever after _is for fairy tales. And this... this is most certainly not a fairy tale.

* * *

At noon, the king was to be dead.

The figure checked the sun's position, craning his neck, exposing the long, jagged scar under his jaw. Noon was almost here. In a few minutes, the king would choke, gag, and then topple from his dining table. The poison in the wine would kill him in just half a minute. He increased his pace, reaching for the windowsill of the tower and hoisting himself up. His arm shook dangerously, and for a moment, perched precariously on the edge of a tower almost ninety feet in the air, the boy thought he would die. Fatigue was taking over his body. Quickly, he stuck his hand through the opening and locked his fingers on the sill from the inside. He wanted to groan. The walls were about three feet thick, and he had to stretch painfully. His other arm was still gripping onto the outer edge and his legs were weak from the climb. Somebody was bound to notice him. A body climbing through a window — a window into the king's dining hall, nonetheless — would hardly go unnoticed. His head pounded and slowed his thinking. The window was barely a slit in the castle wall. How was he supposed to fit his body through it?

He'd have to try. Much more than a king's life was at stake here. He inched his other arm through the opening and secured his grip. Now his stomach dug into the edge. With a grunt, he used all his arm strength and thrust his body into the window. He had forced himself sideways to fit, his left shoulder scraping against the stone. His stiff, throbbing legs were the only thing outside now. His face was bright red from exertion and sweat soaked his clothes. He did his best to stay quiet, a feat more difficult then the climb itself. Grunting and breathing hard would hardly do, especially so close to the king. He wriggled himself through, his legs kicking to inch through the extremely small space.

He toppled lightly from the window, a wooden beam breaking his fall with an _oof_! Getting inside had cost precious time. He couldn't stop to rest. Patting his vest, he felt the outline of his throwing knives with satisfaction. If worst came to worst, he would have to physically intervene. His smooth plan might not come to a head. Kill the _Templare_, dispose of the wine, and then get out. Simple as it was, the task seemed much more daunting. Climbing the tower had been a much larger problem than he had anticipated.

Dust swirled around him. He tried to suppress a sneeze, but a cough managed to escape. He resisted the urge to sniff and rolled onto his stomach. Now that he wasn't in danger of falling, he could concentrate on his surroundings. He squinted downwards. A dining table was about thirty feet below him. The occupants — including the king — wouldn't be able to see him. The wooden beam he had fallen on seemed to be the skeleton for another floor. He was perfectly concealed amidst the wood. Luck seemed to be shining on him that day, for noon was when the sun was directly at the top of the sky and not at an angle. His shadow wouldn't be noticed.

He slowly gripped the beam with two hands and dragged himself forward. His slender body — though protected by thick leather armor — was scarcely a hairsbreadth wider than the support beam. Splinters dug into his hands. He was panting at this point and his vision was slightly blurred as he tried to peer closer at the diners. It was a meeting with all men in fancy, tailored clothes. Their rich, flowing robes spilled out of their designated chairs, as did most of their stomachs. Fat men, he noted with disgust. Nothing but fat men at a party. He focused his attention at the head of the table. A young man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, was seated in a chair more decorative than the other men. His hair was cropped short and blonde, and though he was too far away to see what his face looked like, the air around him looked to be extremely bored. The boy smiled, a white streak on his dirty face. This was King Duncan, ruler of Araluen.

His smile faded. The king was about to die in less time it would take to tie a bootlace. His eyes searched the table again, looking for his target. His heart stuttered when he saw him. As fat as any of the other men, the _Templare_ was different if only in his clothing. The boy's lip curled in disgust. Balding, graying, and with enough blubber to rival a whale, the _Templare_ laughed at what another man said. His back was to him, but it was sheer instinct that told the boy _that was the man_. The corrupted official. The assassin.

His smirk returned. It was a good thing he was a better assassin. Worming his fingers underneath him and into his jerkin, he pulled out the hilt of a slim knife. He kept it low to the beam, not wanting to risk light glaring on the blade. He'd have to wait until the wine bottle appeared. Using his elbow and knees to keep his balance, he used his other hand to grab another knife. One for the wine, the other for the _Templare_.

A minute passed. Had he already missed his deadline? No, the king was still alive and looking very much bored. He didn't want to take his eye off the dining men, but perhaps he could nip it in the bud and destroy the wine before it even reached the table. He swiveled his head to look on the other side of the beam, noticing a small wooden door that was perhaps for the kitchen staff. That was where he'd have to be careful. If experience proved anything, he knew servers carried glass bottles against their chest, the ghost of a cradle forming in their arms. Unless the one pouring the wine would be in on the conspiracy, killing an innocent would expel him from the Brotherhood.

The door swung open and a young girl, no older than him, came stepping out. His breathing increased. She was holding a wine bottle. Purple liquid sloshed in the glass, and his hands suddenly turned sweaty. It was at this moment, so close to completing his project, when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Another man, this one dressed like a woodsman.

The girl neared the table, a pleasant smile forming on her lips.

The boy's mouth ran dry at the sight of the plainly dressed man. Tall and lanky, the woodsman had a look on his face that betrayed his inner feelings. Like the king, he was bored. Unlike the king, he was making an effort to cover it up.

King Duncan noticed the girl and eagerly held up his cup. Anything to help the headache he had forming. The woodsman frowned, something that made the boy's stomach churn. The woodsman looked as if he knew more than what he really led on.

The woodsman was a Ranger.

The serving girl was already at the table. Dammit! He'd let himself get distracted! The purple alcohol was already in his majesty's glass. Shaking his head, he hurriedly reached into his vest once more and pulled out his second-to-last throwing knife. He hoped he didn't miss. His mission was to kill the _Templare_, not anybody else.

He didn't have time to clear his head and take aim. Instinct was going to have to guide him. Short of screaming and jumping to the ground for a distraction, the boy knew his knives could very well save the king's life. He jumped to his feet, a loud noise that caused a few heads to turn in confusion. Dust fell like a curtain to the ground. Not even taking a moment to remained balanced, his arms had curled into his sides and flung the three knives into the scene below.

Barely audible, a small whistling noise accompanied each knife as it flew through the air. Glass shattered and liquid splashed. The wine bottled exploded in the girl's arms, glass shards slicing into her skin and face. The king's wine glass exploded as well, dumping the contents on him and mixing with his own blood. The sound of the _Templare_'s death was masked by the girl's scream. The boy watched with satisfaction as the fat man jerked in his seat and slumped, a thin knife appearing in his neck. Dead.

Suddenly, another noise alerted him. Another knife. But he had only thrown three! His last one was still...

He had just enough time to remember the Ranger before something smashed into his temple. Dazed and blinded, he grappled for the wooden beam before he realized he was already falling. The girl's scream was like a distant buzz, or maybe his ears were ringing. He didn't know. He vaguely felt his body smash into the ground. He was lucky — he landed on his side. Nevertheless, despite being delusional with pain, he felt and heard a distinct _crack_ before lying limp on the ground. Shadows danced before his eyes. A figure neared him, but before it could grab his collar and demand his identity, the boy was unconscious.

In his mind, the feeling of a warm smile spread through him. _Missione compiuta_.

Mission accomplished.


	2. Questions, Questions, So Many Questions!

**Wine Drops**

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**AN:** I won't even mention how ashamed I am… So I'll completely ignore it.

I'm doing something I think hasn't been done before: I'm going to include a peerage system to Araluen and a few Game of Thrones influences. It took me quite a long time to iron this all out in my head — creating a goddamn _map_, the other thirty-eight fiefs and rulers (my map of Araluen looks like it has chickenpox, haha), their names, researching how a peerage system _works_ (_Ugh_ America…), the ranks, etc. — but now that I have, I've got _this_ going on.

The first part is pretty boring but it introduces important characters! I'd like to keep this as realistic as possible, so the first part is essential to the struggles in being Crowley and having to deal with pompous noblemen (and women!) when somebody's been murdered. The second part... well…

There will be multiple point-of-views throughout the story, multiple ones per chapter, and not always fun to read (or write). But just bear with me on this, I'm trying my hardest.

And Elfpen, if you're reading this… ;_; I'm sorry I didn't ask you to edit.

Everybody else enjoy! It's taken three years to get chapter one out!

-confetti-

* * *

"_With every Choice,  
there is an Echo.  
With each Act,  
we change the World_."  
-Sandy Lamb  
BioShock

* * *

**Chapter 1  
"Questions, Questions, So Many Questions."**

* * *

It was the evening of Lord Elrin Rickard's funeral. The man was, in Crowley's personal opinion, a disgusting slob who was more careless with his finances than his appearance. And as far as he knew, an abusive drunk and better off dead. It was a tradition for Crowley to escort the insipid fool to his apartment once a month when he'd been too drunk otherwise. Only his family name saved his social standing, but now dead — _killed_ — the whisperings and scorn poked through the woodworkings like termites.

Even from close friends. _How typical_.

Crowley was not sure if even Lady Rickard — Adwina, he believed her name to be — was relieved or horrified at her husband's death.

But it mattered little how well-liked Elrin was amongst his peers. He was a man with a title who'd been outright murdered. _Shocking_, yes, but when news spread that the _King_ had been wounded in the attack as well, calls for public execution were nearly unbearable to stifle.

_If only _other _news could spread so efficiently_, Crowley brooded, as he refrained from tapping his fingers on the table. A droning voice from one of the other lords was soothing a stressful knot at the back of his neck. Restless nights were amounting to a never ending battle against sleep, even (_especially_) at this High Council meeting.

Orange evening sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows high above them. It gave the polished pine table an almost ethereal glow, the combined wood and marble of the room a dramatic flourish. Ivy hung from the ceiling in tendrils and cast shadows that swayed dozens of feet above. The torches had already been lit, including the enormous candle chandelier above the half-empty table. It was completely audacious, a remnant of King Therald ten years before, and one of the nine preserved rooms in the castle that bespoke of an earlier king.

He supposed he was glad nothing had been gilded… or worse.

_Encrusted_.

Blinking, he refocused his attention to hear the ending of Lord Tyret's announcement.

"... Houses Branden and Sansell have threatened a storming of the castle dungeon if actions are not partaken."

Crowley nearly rolled his eyes. Oh, the _posturing_. Everybody knew of the small unrest that belied the two houses and the crown. On more than one occasion both had been evicted from the capital, only for a marriage to invite them back in. The Rickard's were intertwined with them somehow, making the threats serious but harmless.

Nonetheless, ire rose through the council.

"Since when do we take into consideration threats from the Brandens and Sansells? Might as well invite a peasant to the council meetings!"

Crowley agreed, but winced at the metaphor. Lord Hagor, a rather young and brash individual, was popular for his idiocy. Crowley both despised and gained great entertainment from his presence.

A slam against the table broke the arguing voices.

"These people that are threatening are Araluens: influential ones that can very well rally the people to join in a siege! They should be immediately banished from the capital for suggesting incompetence of the High Council!"

Crowley begged to differ but held his tongue. The common folk would sooner flay any opposers than rebel against their beloved king. As for the banishment, well…

As if summoned by his thoughts, King Duncan spoke and instantly quieted the room.

"Carlten is somewhat correct." Oh how Crowley fought to keep his smile. It wasn't often that Duncan lied to appease the lords and ladies — '_It upsets my delicate sensibilities, Crowley, stop laughing_.' — and in this instance Crowley knew he was lying: his fingertips were white as they pressed against the table.

He continued talking, much to Crowley's amusement. "We cannot be arrogant enough to overlook such rebellious intent. I want an audience with the two Lords later tonight arranged. Any other courageous declarations of storming my castle will result in detainment. Further punishment will be decided after I have met with the lords." An approved hum and the scratching of a quill filled the silence, the royal secretary hurriedly writing out a summonings in the back of the room.

Crowley caught and held Duncan's eyes. The King cleared his throat. "Now, Commandant, would you be so kind as to inform me what I will be telling them?"

All eyes turned to Crowley. Standing, knowing he'd have to project sure body language — it most _certainly_ didn't matter that he was as tall as an _adolescent_ — he spoke with an authoritative voice that he hoped matched the gray in his hair.

"The killer is still unconscious, however there are a series of arrangements pertaining to the incident that are equally pressing to address." There, he'd gathered their attention. "Firstly, after examining the situation with many of the retired Rangers in the castle, we have come to the conclusion that the target was most definitely not the King."

Carlten, often the voice of stubbornness in these council meetings, interrupted. "And how do you all know that? The assassin is unconscious and unable to confess, you said so yourself."

There were few people Crowley respected at these council meetings. King Duncan, a close friend of his, was an obvious choice — but Lord Carlten was another. Carlten, though holding the Ranger Corps in high regard, was a man of his own intelligence and suspicions. He was middle-aged with a receding hairline and a set of well-groomed sideburns. His eyes were a deep brown that knew of every loophole in every system and his tall frame often dwarfed others.

At the moment, however, Crowley wanted to throw his saxe knife in the man's face.

He sighed instead. "We found it more than coincidental that the boy was able to kill Lord Elrin with such accuracy and not the King as well… if you'll beg such talk, Your Majesty."

Crowley almost, _almost_ rolled his eyes.

The King nodded and gestured to hurry up.

He did. "In fact, after perusing his person we found that the throwing knives were the _only_ weapons he possessed. And two of the three were wasted on a bottle and goblet of wine."

Hagor, bless the imbecile, interrupted. "That's easy, in his haste he missed his main target."

_If one more person interrupts me again_...

Crowley raised a finger and smoothly lied. "That was what we originally thought, as well, if we're assuming the knife to kill His Majesty had instead hit his goblet. But why the wine bottle? It was a fair amount of distance away from the King. If he did, in fact, intend to kill His Majesty as well, why did he waste his knife on the wine bottle and not His Majesty's neck? And why did Elrin get killed at all? That trail of thought makes little sense, especially since the leftover wine was tested to be poisoned."

Most of the lords jerked at the news, pondering over what such a thing meant. Duncan, at the end of the table, rubbed his bandaged forearm, where the knife had knocked the glass goblet from his fingers and pierced through his arm. The various cuts littering his hands were visible to all. His pale eyebrows were drawn together and his mouth pursed.

"Are you quite certain?"

Crowley nodded "Yes. Waltar had what little was left of the wine — and the various wines that were to be served afterwards — tested. All the rats that consumed the wine from that particular bottle were dead within the half-hour. He suspects cyanide."

There was a tiny bit of stunned silence that Crowley would congratulate himself on later. Rendering the men of the council — even as small as it was now — speechless was a rare occurrence.

Lord Mikhail, a bald man with a set of sly green eyes, seemed to know of every rumor in the castle and country and was quite possibly the most dangerous man Crowley knew. More than once, the Ranger Commandant had approached the Earl to confirm a rumor or two before launching an investigation. Crowley distrusted him greatly but respected his ability to know which gossip was worthwhile and which came at a high price.

It was him that spoke next, a raised eyebrow accompanying.

"So does this make our would-be assassin a savior?"

Crowley frowned, the question having grated him for the past few days. "I haven't the slightest idea to his motives, yet. At the moment, however... yes."

More squabbling, this time one man at a time. Which was impressive, given the two dozen present.

"That doesn't change the fact that he potentially crippled our King and killed Lord Elrin! That is more than enough for a fair plea towards an execution order."

A chuckle, "Not to mention he injured a girl of the castle's kitchen..."

"He did intrude upon royal grounds, as well."

"None of the people will believe this, you do know. And even if they did, the boy grievously injured our King —!"

"Grievously?"

A silence blanketed over the table from Duncan's sputter. Crowley fought the oncoming smile, just managing to stifle a laugh, and had to look down at the table to hide his smirk.

"Good heavens, I did not realize I was bedridden and fatally wounded. Why, if that were the case, somebody please inform my daughter that she is to be coronated."

Lord Hagor looked properly chastised for his exaggeration and was red with embarrassment. "I only meant, Your Majesty, that —"

Duncan waved his hand. "It does not matter. What does matter, is that a boy, whether he intended to or not, saved my life. Yes, I was _grievously_ —" A look at Hagor. "— injured in the process, but I'd take a knife to the arm than blood foaming at my mouth."

Lord Mikhail rubbed his beard. "You are grateful for his actions? He killed one of your men at your lunch table and undeniably injured yourself and a servant of your kitchens. In any other situation, an execution would be the proper form of response."

Lord Tyret, a man twice as old as Crowley, shakily countered with a strength of indifference that only comes from such an age. "And yet this is hardly a proper situation. Lord Elrin's death is a double-edged blessing; the man was a fool and an embarrassment to the court. His actions have more than once created unnecessary problems, but his absence will be enough to incite the other lords and ladies into calling for an execution. I propose instead of focusing on the aftermath of his death, that we focus on why he was killed." The elderly man finished his speech with a cough and settled to catch his breath.

Crowley's heart gave a triumphant thud. Despite Viscount Tyret ruling one of the lesser fiefs, his knowledge was a coveted and well-respected source of information. With him voting for an investigation, the others would be hard-pressed to ignore such a decision.

One of the Duchesses, a woman with graying blonde hair and a hooked nose — Her Grace Brewster, Crowley noted with growing satisfaction — turned towards Duncan. "Lord Tyret has proven a very good point. The boy knows about and prevents a bottle of poisoned wine from reaching your lips... and then kills Elrin? If I'm going to be so bold, I'd say it's too much coincidence to ignore."

Lord Carlten's smirk could be felt by everyone. "You are suggesting, Your Grace, that the late Lord Elrin was involved in this plot somehow?"

Before she could answer, the Duke of Carson Fief — a man with ink black hair — came to her defense. "I can tell by the look in your eye that you are in agreeance. As are most of us here. Her Grace simply voiced what we were all in accordance on."

Though not a supporter of Elrin, Mikhail looked faintly surprised. "So a boy comes in, murders a Marquess — not a small crime, if I may remind everybody — and now he's being proclaimed a hero for killing a trusted man of the King's court, all because we suspect said-Marquess to have had a hand in attempting the King's murder? It sounds very far fetched and something of a minstrel's song. Especially considering Lord Elrin's before-mentioned _unsightly_ behavior accounted for nothing serious."

The youngest at the table, Lord Hagor, jumped onto the Earl's reasoning. "This suspicion is all news to me. I didn't have such assumptions on Lord Elrin's person before this council. Even his surroundings garner no significance. It was a luncheon for the Marquesses and Marchionesses of the kingdom, which, if I recall, happen once a month. Elrin had at any point the opportunity to kill our King if he so wanted." He nervously glanced at Duncan. "My apologies, Your Majesty."

It was probably the most infuriating and most intelligent detail the young Viscount had ever suggested.

The King was impressed as well. There was a moment's hesitation, the likes of which Duchess Brewster took advantage of.

"I, for one, agree with an investigation. The circumstances are far too unusual to not launch one. And if Lord Elrin is innocent of such crimes, then no evidence will come forth. An investigation will also prove if the boy was acting alone or not. Who's to say Lord Elrin's family is not at risk for whatever scheme is unfolding?"

It was a sway in the conversation Crowley needed and eagerly jumped. Crowley wanted to be back in his apartment and sleeping before nightfall. "Another factor, Your Majesty, is that the boy comes not from Araluen. His clothing and coloring are distinctively mainland and it makes a fair chance that he will not speak the commontongue. If an investigation is approved, myself and a fellow Ranger who speaks a fair bit of the mainland languages, will be on the case. As well as any of the retired Rangers in the castle who you deem essential."

Instantly a gleam shined in Duncan's expression. "And which Ranger is it that speaks a 'fair bit of the mainland languages'?"

Crowley couldn't help his raised eyebrow. "I can request for Ranger Halt's presence at the castle. He could be here within a week." He also couldn't help shifting his weight. His back was beginning to ache from standing for so long.

There was a silence in which everyone pondered on Ranger Halt's integrity. The silence did not last long.

"Well, there you have it!" The Duke of Carson exclaimed, "Ranger Halt is a man nobody can deny is of utmost morality. I fully trust the both of them to handle a case such as this with the delicacy it needs."

Oh hell, Crowley thought, as he watched the many nods and agreeable dispositions. He would need a whole keg of ale before sleeping — for one could call Halt many things, but delicate and moral weren't two of them. If only there was someone else Crowley could trust to handle such a scandalous and difficult task with... But, sadly, there wasn't.

Even the skeptical Lord Mikhail sighed and relinquished his grip as devil's advocate. "I agree. Ranger Halt and yourself, Commandant, is what brought the Ranger Corps back to its respected intelligence. I call in favor for an investigation as well."

"Yet we are only a small portion of the High Council. We must wait for the others to arrive before making a decision such as this." Carlten sighed and rubbed his forehead. "But I, too, must agree. Something has to be looked-into and since the boy is, as of yet, still unconscious..." He gestured to the air in front of him.

King Duncan rubbed his temples. A young girl — definitely not the same as before — came to refill his cup of cinnamon tea and the smell wafted over the table. Crowley nearly gagged, having far too much of a coffee addiction to appreciate the bitter drink.

As he set his cup down, the King clasped his hands and looked around. A fair half of the usual council dotted the table, each one looking on with a fair bit of trepidation and concern.

"No. It will take at least another two weeks for those of the southern fiefs to reach the Capital, and that is a span of time too long." He made eye contact with each of the members of the room, and it was in that moment Crowley remembered why Duncan was such a popular young king.

"Though I am king, I like to think of myself as a fair listener. I have heard what you have all had to say. I'm not denying the possibility of an investigation, but I am not blessing one, either. We will wait for seven more lords or ladies to appear, making a two-thirds majority, before we contemplate such a decision in its finality."

There was a tension in the air that spoke of dread. Crowley could see in the shoulders and faces the stress of yet another council meeting. He could see arguments and counterarguments charging behind their eyes. Crowley sat back in his chair smoothly and watched his friend do what he did best: manipulate his noblemen and women.

"Elrin's death was tragic. But with the circumstances as they are, and no other leads or suggestions as to why such a heinous act was committed, we have no other options. I would like to appeal to the half of you here to _consider_ an investigation. I like to know what is happening in my kingdom and castle. And at this moment there is a mystery under my roof that unsettles me deeply.

"For the safety of you and the nobility that are arriving within the next few weeks, I would suggest having a double-up on guards. Regarding the people of Araluen, we shall wait before distributing such news. We don't need more outlandish rumors being spread, especially such a complex one as this."

The King of Araluen leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes tiredly.

There was another drag of silence that Crowley was very unused to. It was eerie to him, how quiet the lords and ladies were in the face of such a decision. Perhaps it was the absence of their peers or Duncan's injury that brought them to such timidity. Or the bandages on their King's arm.

With nothing being said, Duncan gestured to his secretary. "I need to see Lady Rickard and speak with her before the Brandens and Sansells arrive. It is only fair that she be aware of this impending investigation."

"Lord Elrin's family is taking a holiday into the countryside. They left four days ago, with Elrin supposing to join them yesterday. No doubt they've heard of his death and funeral and are on the return."

Well. A ripple in the council as they all turned to Lord Mikhail in various degrees of apprehension. That was a bit of news Crowley was absolutely unaware of. He crudely studied the man's pale face and wondered when, exactly, the Earl was going to bequeath such information. And how the Rickards' departure had slipped beneath his — a _Ranger's_! — notice.

"Then," Duncan tentatively continued, "I suggest their apartment to be cordoned and temporary housing provided for their return. No doubt they could accidentally tamper with evidence, if an investigation is to be pursued. I want Lady Rickard immediately brought to me upon her arrival. If nothing else is to be said, I'd appreciate having a small bit of rest before I'm to have further company."

A chorus of 'Of course, Your Majesty's followed soon after as the scattered council rose to leave.

"Crowley?"

The Ranger turned, having been halfway to the main doors. Others stopped to listen as well and Crowley took careful note as to who.

"I want to be instantly notified when the boy awakes and when Ranger Halt rides into my fief."

With a sarcastic smirk that really shouldn't have been on his face, Crowley called, "Why of course, Your Majesty," and strode out the double doors.

Duncan's tired eyes pierced him from across the room, even over his cup of tea.

* * *

After everybody dispersed, the most powerful man in the country took a minute to wonder at just how pleased Crowley looked. For all his stoic training, Duncan could still read him like they were young children. He knew the man must be preening. He thought maybe he would be, too, if his arguments had been argued for him — which, of course, never happened. The damn council had practically _jumped_ at the possibility of a treacherous scandal!

He rolled his eyes. Any shred of excitement was pounced on like a kitten. Bringing the hot tea once more to his mouth, he winced at the bitter taste and the resonating throb in his forearm. The delicate glass cup made an equally delicate sound as he set it back on its matching saucer.

How badly did he want clarity to the madness around him? His curiosity was inevitably piqued, which he knew Crowley was hoping for. But was he willing to vouch for somebody who murdered one of his own men? _Just_ for answers that may or may not lead to something more? Mikhail's reproachful voice echoed in his mind and his frown deepened. The whole plot _did_ sound something of a minstrel's song. One he would find in Cassie's fairytale books.

He scrubbed his face once more and tried to _will_ confidence through his hands and into his heart and brain. If his curiosity was misplaced, and he _did_ provide temporary amnesty to the child — _assassin_, he had to remind himself — then he would be forever guilted by an unjust decision and a dead Marquess that would no doubt haunt him.

_But_ if he _was_ right and, through a decision of the council, was forced to execute his savior, he knew he would be equally tortured by the possibilities and what ifs.

He supposed, being King and all, he could just _order_ a secret investigation...

But with that thought, Duncan's mind cast to just what secret investigations resulted in, and nausea curled in his stomach. He remembered with vividness the interrupted council meeting, the stuttering whisper in his ear, and the blood pooling across pillows and fur…

He shook his head and groaned into his hands. He could not unearth such thoughts now else he'd be irritable and likely to have the lords beheaded for looking at him funny. Which was an entertaining thought considering Lord Sansell had somewhat of a lazy eye…

His mood lifted somewhat at the thought. With a little less than an hour before two of the most imbecilic men in Araluen arrived in his throne room, he decided to see to his daughter's shenanigans. He had to prepare for their idiocy somehow.

His tea was lukewarm by the time he drank from it again.

* * *

The boy awoke in a cell of swords and screams.

Of course, there was no battle to the death happening in the cramped stone room. Instead of the bright, dusty air of Vizeno and the colorful _carnevale_, his eyes opened to darkness.

It was blinding.

Eyelids stretching as far as they could, he panted through his pounding heart and tried to regain a semblance of awareness. His head ached, his arms and legs burned, and his mouth felt drier than the Impassible Desert. It took such a massive effort not to groan in pain, but a small grunt slipped through.

Almost immediately there was blessed orange light to his left, and a helmeted face glittered through black iron bars.

The man's deep voice _should_ have startled him. Instead all he could do was squint through blurry vision. The man asked him something he was sure was in a different language, but he couldn't be too sure with such addled thoughts. A loud clanging followed the ensuing silence and caused pain to explode behind his forehead. The voice came again, angrier.

This time he groaned at the intense pain. His eyes felt as if they were going to pop out from the building pressure. He closed them. There was no change in the color — or pressure — and he scrunched his face to make sure his eyes were actually closed.

What had happened to him? Where was he? Sluggish memories of a long boat ride and cold, dirty villages slung through his brain. The pain dulled to a point where he could think somewhat clearly.

After a moment of silence, he gathered that the loud-helmet-man had finally left. He couldn't hear the footsteps and worried at his state of mind that he couldn't hear an armored, fully-grown man walk away.

He wasn't sure how much later it was when the light came forward once more. He had managed to remember the mission, Entonio's words of advice, and falling off the wooden support beam. He knew there had been one of those Rangermen at the luncheon. His fingers twitched when a particular throb of pain seared above his eyebrow. Had he succeeded? He hoped this pain was worth it and he'd managed to kill the _Templare_ bastard.

A grating instead of a voice accompanied the light. The black iron bars moved and the light spilled further into the room. A small man entered, barely taller than himself, and the light from the burning torch showed light-colored hair and an oval face.

The cell was small enough so that the man extended the torch and lit one of the sconces on the opposite wall. Light slowly bloomed through the darkness, enough for the boy to see that he had been dressed in a loose nightgown while unconscious, that he was shackled — wrists and thighs, _how clever_ — to the floor, and that the man before him was the Rangerman from the luncheon.

His head pounded and his eyes blurred.

The man spoke and this time he was positive it was in a different language. A figure came up behind the Rangerman and set something metal on the floor. The smell of wood and smoke slowly penetrated his clouded mind. He watched as the man carefully dragged a metal tray across the ground — _dannato_, so much _noise_ — and crouched beside him. The torch was propped against the adjacent wall and out of reach.

He winced in pain when the man asked something he couldn't understand. After a beat of silence, where he guessed he was supposed to have replied — he could barely focus on the man's _face_ let alone form coherent _thoughts_ — the man sighed and picked something off the tray.

A smooth cup was pushed against his lips and water poured over his mouth. The boy jerked and madly grabbed for it, his wrist shackles tugging on the floor and cutting into his wrists. The cup was pulled away with an accompanied "No," — finally something he understood — and a barrage of other words.

He didn't care. The water felt so, _so_ good and already the ache in his head was lessening. The cup returned and this time he allowed the man to continue with only a twitch of his fingers. When the last of the water dripped into his mouth, he leaned his head against the wall and tried to subdue another intense wave of pain.

The man spoke again and he cracked an eye open. After a moment, the man sighed and said something else. The accent was poor, but he knew Gallican when he heard it.

It was a shame he couldn't speak it.

He slowly shook his head. After a series of different questions, punctuated with more drinks of water, the man finally reached Toscan and he smiled. His tongue was still swollen, his eyes were heavy, and his hands and feet were numb.

But he opened his mouth and forced his parched throat to speak, all the same.

"_Is... your... king... alive_?"

The man just stared at him with a frown. He was confused for a moment, wondering why there was no reply, when his question was answered.

"_Toscan throw no. Pigeon_."

In his confused mind, the boy could only stare dumbfounded as the man searched his face for... for _something_. He wondered at how disgusting he looked, for a brief second, before the pounding in his head overtook his thoughts and he had to close his eyes.

There was light shuffling. Another sigh. The metal tray and items were picked up, scraping across the floor and startling him into opening his eyes. Expecting to see the tray flying at his face, he was faintly surprised and greatly relieved that the Rangerman had turned around. The light and heat from the torch faded as he passed through the gate. A few words were exchanged in the strange language after the shrieking of the closing door.

Even in his pain-filled mind, the boy couldn't help scoffing. Of _course_ there was a damn guard. It was probably the same _stronzo_ from before. The pounding in his head seemed to increase tenfold at the reminder of loud, angry voice.

The bright light faded entirely. His ears were ringing too much to fully hear the fading footsteps but wished he had been left some water. He quickly realized how pointless that would be if he couldn't even scratch his own neck.

When the guard checked on the boy ten minutes later, under Crowley's careful instruction, the deadly assassin was fast asleep with his head resting awkwardly on the wall and a faint line of drool on his cheek.

* * *

**AN:** If you're not royalty or a Duke/Duchess, you're called a Lord or a Lady.

If you're me, you use a lot of em-dashes in your writing.

... And take three years to update with a mediocre chapter.

-crying-

GtG


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